I can’t even talk about what a shitstorm this week was just yet.
I’m like not even there yet. I can’t even absorb it. I’m like an angry, delusional sponge.
I’m trying to get a grip here but we’re coming down to some very frayed seams holding together my brain.
Suffice to say (and I’m really hoping it does suffice to say because I can’t rehash the whole thing) but after recovering from my recovery of being in the hospital I saw a handful of doctors–not all of which were brimming with great or even slightly optimistic solutions.
It’s so interesting when people tell me I should not focus on my symptoms and just live my life.
Because my symptoms never interfere with my life. Never. Symptoms are totally parallel to my life. I don’t have to interact with them at all, right?
There’s been a lot of pats on the back with the tender, sympathetic thought, “Well, you’ll probably never be diagnosed so you may as well just stop trying.”
Can I explain something?
As in a disease that PROGRESSIVELY gets worse and scarier and more unknown with age.
At least not people who have any plans on actually living normally or having children or being independent or not living in horrendous pain or being struck down by impossible to remedy staph infections or having blood pressure that’s just a floating, flying, free-falling fuck of a spirit that feels like rising and plummeting are it’s main two functions.
Okay. I’ve done a lot of venting this week. I really just need to take a deep breath, climb back up on my horse and run some people over.
Yeah. I know this is just an exceptionally unfortunate week. I’m not going to crawl into a dark hole and start reading Twilight. Don’t worry.
I’ve got this.